Ovid's epistles translated by several hands.

SAPHO to PHAON:

BY THE HONOURABLE Sir CARR. SCROPE, BARONET.

The ARGUMENT.

••he Poetess Sapho forsaken by her Lover Phaon (who was gone from Lesbos to Sicily) and resolved, in Despair, to Drown her self, writes this Letter to him before she Dies.

WHile Ph••on to the flaming Aetna flies Consum'd with no less Fires poor Sapho dies. ••urn, I burn, like kindled Fields of Corn, ••hen by the driving Winds the flames are born.

My Muse and Lute can now no longer please, They are th' Employments of a mind at ease. Wandring from thought to thought I sit alone All day, and my once dear Companions shun. In vain the Lesbian Maids claim each a part, Where thou alone hast ta'ne up all the heart. Ah lovely Youth! how can'st thou cruel prove, When blooming years and beauty bid thee love? If none but equal Charms thy heart can bind, Then to thy self alone thou must be kind. Yet worthless as I am, there was a time When Phaon thought me worthy his Esteem. A thousand tender things to mind I call, For they who truly Love remember all. Delighted with the Musick of my Tongue, Upon my words with silent Joy he hung, And snatching Kisses, stop'd me as I sung.

Kisses, whose melting touch, his Soul did move, The earnest of the coming joyes of Love. Then tender words, short sighs, & thousand charms Of wanton Arts endear'd me to his Arms; Till both expiring with tumultuous Joys, A gentle faintness did our Limbs surprize. Beware, Sicilian Ladies, Ah! beware How you receive my faithless Wanderer. You too will be abus'd, if you believe The flattering words that he so well can give. Loose to the Winds I let my flowing Hair, No more with fragrant scents perfume the Air, But all my Dress discovers wild Despair. For whom alas! should now my Art be shown? The only Man I car'd to please is gone. Oh let me once more see those Eyes of thine, Thy Love I ask not, do but suffer mine.

Thou might'st at least have ta'ne thy last farewel, And feign'd a sorrow which thou didst not feel. No kind remembring Pledge was ask'd by thee, And nothing left but Injuries with me. Witness ye Gods, with what a Death-like cold My heart was seiz'd when first thy flight was told. Speechless and stupid for a while I lay, And neither words, nor tears could find their way. But when my swelling Passion forc'd a vent, With Hair dishevel'd, Clothes in pieces rent; Like some sad Mother through the Streets I run, Who to his Grave attends her only Son. Expos'd to all the World my self I see, Forgetting Vertue, Fame, and all but thee; So ill alas! do Love and Shame agree! 'Tis thou alone that art my constant care, In pleasing Dreams thou comfort'st my Despair;

And mak'st the night, that does thy form convey, Welcome to me above the fairest day. Then 'spight of absence I thy Love enjoy, In close embraces lockt, methinks, we lye; Thy tender words I hear, thy Kisses feel, With all the Joys that shame forbids to tell. But when I waking miss thee from my bed, And all my pleasing Images are fled; The dear deluding Vision to retain, I lay me down, and try to sleep again. Soon as I rise, I haunt the Caves and Groves (Those conscious scenes of our once happy loves) There like some frantick Bacchanal I walk, And to my self with sad distraction talk. Then big with grief I throw me on the ground, And view the melancholy Grotto round; Whose hanging roof of Moss and craggy Stone Delights my eyes above the brightest Throne.

But when I spy the bank, whose grassy bed Retains the print our weary bodies made, On thy forsaken side I lay me down, And with a shower of tears the place I drown. The Trees are wither'd all since thou art gone, As if for thee they put their Mourning on. No warbling Bird does now with Musick fill The Woods, except the mournful Philomel. With hers my dismal Notes all night agree, Of Tereus she complains, and I of thee. Ungentle Youth! did'st thou but see me mourn, Hard as thou art, thou would'st, thou would'st return. My constant falling tears the Paper stain, And my weak hand can scarce direct my Pen. Oh could thy eyes but reach my dreadful slate, As now I stand prepar'd for sudden Fate, Thou couldst not see this naked breast of mine Dasht against Rocks, rather than joyn'd to thine.

Peace, Sapho, peace! thou send'st thy fruitless crys To one more hard than rocks, more deaf than seas. The flying Winds bear thy Complaints away, But none will ever back his Sails convey. No longer then thy hopeless Love attend, But let thy Life here with thy Letter end.